


Don't Fit My Soul Anymore

by ama



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Canon Compliant, Coming of Age, Father Figures, Gen, Light Angst, Uncle-Nephew Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:21:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22220971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/ama
Summary: Iroh was the first to provide Zuko was armor. It was nothing, at first--a simple indulgence for a boy who had fanciful dreams of being a warrior. Over time, it became something different.
Relationships: Iroh & Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 337





	Don't Fit My Soul Anymore

**Author's Note:**

> I started thinking of Zuko's armor and exile and the angst potential therein a couple of weeks ago, and then [this incredible fanart](https://viria.tumblr.com/post/27258227609/ever-since-i-lost-my-soni-think-of-you-as-my)  
> came across my dash and gave me the kick in the pants to actually do something about it. I love older Zuko's design so much you guys. Title from "Orphans" by the Gaslight Anthem.

General Iroh, Dragon of the West, departed from the Fire Nation for Ba Sing Se after three days of feasting and celebrating, leading a great procession of soldiers and rapturous civilians to the harbor, where he boarded a large naval ship that flew the four-pointed flag of the Crown Prince. He returned three years later on a modest merchant vessel, alone except for his batman. As the ship began to dock, he and Hide went out on the deck and gazed down at the busy harbor.

“Did you send a message to Fire Lord Ozai?” Iroh asked.

“Yes, sir. Your brother knows you are coming,” Hide said, and Iroh was amused at the man’s loyalty. He would never stoop to referring to the Fire Lord by his given name only—but he had yet to pair Ozai’s name with his new title.

“Of course, the timing of a voyage by sea can vary so widely,” Iroh added as their vigil proved fruitless.

“Yes, sir. And messenger hawks do sometimes go astray.”

“It is no matter. A retired Army man has no need for elaborate fanfare. You will soon come to appreciate the simple things yourself, Hide.”

“I suppose so. May I say what an honor it has been to serve at your side, General," he said, his voice flickering for a moment with emotion. Iroh inclined his head in a silent, grateful acknowledgement.

They disembarked with the little luggage they had. Hide whistled at one of the porters who stalked the docks with pushcarts, and he leaped up to load their trunks. Iroh wondered whether they should go to the nearest guard post and request escort or just hire a carriage. There was one parked nearby, but he could tell at a glance that it was too fine to be a hired cab; even the rhino that pulled it had gilt tooled into its reins. Just as he was about to turn away, he spotted the boy standing on the carriage’s step, hanging out over the crowd to stare at the ships. Lu Ten used to do the same thing, Iroh thought wistfully. It wasn’t unusual for a boy in their island nation to love sailing, but Lu Ten had always had a particular fondness for ships. Iroh suspected he would have gone into the Navy, if his father had not been a general. Perhaps…

No. He shouldn’t speculate. It was only because the boy at the carriage bore a passing resemblance to Lu Ten—it was making Iroh’s imagination run amok. Just as he was about to look away, the boy’s head turned and his eyes fell on Iroh.

“Uncle!”

Iroh’s jaw went slack with shock. Surely that could not be his little nephew—he could not have been gone so long. But the boy bounded off the carriage and darted through the crowd. He flung his arms open as he approached Iroh, then remembered himself last minute. He stopped, put his hands together, and bowed.

“Welcome home, Uncle Iroh.”

“Zuko,” he said warmly. He embraced his nephew and felt a true smile tugging at his face for the first time in—well. The first time in a long while. Zuko squeezed him just as hard, and he pressed his face in Iroh’s chest.

“I missed you so much,” he mumbled.

“I missed you, too, nephew.”

“I’m sorry about Lu Ten.”

Iroh’s heart spasmed in his chest. He dragged a hand up and down Zuko’s back, then drew away and rested his hands on the boy’s thin shoulders.

“Has there been any word from your mother?” he asked softly. Zuko winced.

“No. Dad says… he says she’s gone for good. But I don’t know what that means.”

Iroh had an idea, but he kept it to himself. If he was wrong, he would only serve to drive a wedge between father and son, and that was something he was loathe to do. If he was right—Zuko was safer in his ignorance.

“Come, Zuko,” he said. “Let us go home and have a nice, soothing cup of tea. Excuse me— _Prince_ Zuko.”

A very odd expression passed over Zuko’s face, embarrassment and pleasure and distaste and nerves all combined into one. They began to walk towards the carriage, Hide and the porter a respectful distance behind them. The new Crown Prince walked slower than he used to, took more care in his steps, kept his back straighter, and Iroh found it painfully endearing. The boy was nowhere near to being a man, but he was beginning to try. He still wore a child’s phoenix tail.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Zuko announced. “I’ve been coming down to the harbor every day just in case your ship came in early. Where have you been all this time? Azula said you were coming home ages ago.”

“Oh, here and there,” Iroh said breezily. They climbed into the carriage. It was built for four, and he offered a spot to Hide, but the servant refused, and sat up with the driver instead. The whip cracked over the rhino’s rough hide, and the carriage lurched into motion. “I needed some time to myself, and it seemed that your father had things well in hand here. I visited the colonies, and some other very interesting places. I am sorry I didn’t bring you any souvenirs.”

“That’s okay, you didn’t have to. I’ve been practicing with the knife you sent me.” He drew the sheathed knife from the pocket of his trousers. “I’m getting pretty good.”

“Of that, I have no doubt. Perhaps… hmm.”

His hand fluttered in an involuntary dismissive gesture, and he looked out the window. The Fire Nation was beautiful. He had always known that—his travels had shown him the beauty of the other nations, but still none compared to his homeland. The sun bounced off emerald palm leaves and ruby flowers as large as both his hands put together. Two young firebenders giggled as they tossed a small ball of flame back and forth, and vendors called out to advertise a veritable rainbow of goods. But he couldn’t appreciate the sight for very long, as his nephew had a greater claim on his attention.

“Perhaps what?” he asked eagerly.

“Oh, nothing.”

“But what were you _going_ to say?”

Iroh looked at Zuko’s face, his wide, hopeful eyes, and wondered if the boy had had any adult attention since his mother left.

“I was introduced by letter recently to one of the premier swordsmen in the Fire Nation,” he said. “I was wondering if he might be willing to take you on as a student, if you were interested in pursuing this further.”

“I do!” Zuko said immediately, leaning forward. “Do you mean it, Uncle?”

“Yes, but—I think it ought to wait a few years.”

“Why?”

“Because you are still very young, Prince Zuko. A young boy needs to learn history and science and literature and the customs of our nation, but he also needs time for play and relaxation. I would not have your days so busy that you were deprived of these essentials.”

“But I’m already training my firebending, too. Why can’t I take sword lessons at the same time?”

“You are already a firebender. To abandon your training now would be simply irresponsible. But swordfighting is a purely martial art, and there is no need for you to learn it now when you have no real use for it.”

“But…” Zuko pressed his lips together and stared at the floor of the carriage, clearly deep in thought. His hands gripped the cushions of his seat. “But I’m not just a kid anymore, Uncle. I’m the prince. And now that Dad’s the Fire Lord… I’m going to rule this nation someday. And I don’t want to just sit around and relax all day. I want to go out and _do_ things, to help win the war and show everybody what we’re fighting for. Like you did.”

Iroh wanted to say something, to cut this conversation off at the root, but his throat had swollen shut. A blush stained Zuko’s cheeks.

“I’m not—I’m not a very good firebender. Not like Azula is. I’m going to keep practicing, but… I still want to fight, and maybe I’ll be better at swordfighting. I’d like to try.”

Iroh sighed and sank back on the cushions.

“Very well. I will speak to the Fire Lord, and if he gives his approval, I will write to Master Piandao. But you must not get your hopes up, nephew. He can be a very selective teacher.”

“But I’m the _prince_!”

“He is still a free man,” Iroh said, amused. He raised an eyebrow. “What will you do if he refuses? Ask your father to throw him in prison—or have him executed?”

“No,” Zuko said reluctantly. “I just don’t want him to say no.”

“Then I will endeavor to write a very convincing letter. More flies are caught with honey than with vinegar, Prince Zuko.”

They passed from the harbor city to the inner Caldera. In previous years, Zuko would have pestered Iroh with questions the entire way; he was more subdued, now, and they stared out the window for some minutes in silence. Suddenly, on a whim, Iroh lifted his fist and wrapped his knuckles against the wall of the carriage. The rhino jolted to a halt.

“What is it, Uncle?”

“You will see in a moment, nephew.”

They climbed out of the carriage in front of a large shop. It had one window, with only one item on display—an exquisitely-adorned helmet, at least a century old. This shop had no need to prove its reputation beyond that. As they entered, a stooped man squinted up at them and immediately fell into a bow.

“General Iroh,” he croaked. “I am delighted at your safe return. Greetings, Prince Zuko.”

“Hello,” Zuko said diffidently, with a glance up at Iroh. Iroh rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Zuko, this is Master Akio. He and his family are the finest armorers in the Fire Nation, and have been close personal friends of the Royal Family for many years. Akio, my nephew has come today for his first fitting.”

“Really, Uncle?”

“Of course. If you are going to learn the art of the sword, you must also be properly equipped to defend yourself—or else you would be hopelessly out of balance.”

“Thank you!” Zuko said, springing back to bow.

Akio suffered from arthritis and was semi-retired, so he and Iroh discussed the design as his eldest son came to take Zuko’s measurements. Zuko stood on a small raised dais in front of three angled mirrors. The armorer wrapped the tape around his head first, then from crown to jaw and temple to temple. His daughter, a few years older than Zuko, hovered nearby with a board to record the figures. Zuko held himself very straight when the armorer began to measure his chest and his arms—but he was practically vibrating with excitement. Iroh watched from the corner of the room, affection warming his heart.

“It won’t fit,” Akio muttered.

“You lack such confidence in your son, my friend?”

“My son can do the work, but the boy is eleven years old. He’ll grow out of it by week after next, if we’re lucky.”

“Then we will come back for another set. I can make you a very rich man, by the time the prince comes of age.”

Akio squinted down at the sketches he had produced. He made some notes in the corner and redrew some of the lines.

“I’m already a rich man. I’ll make the plates thinner than the standard… and add hooks to the breastplate here, so it can be expanded more easily. Hopefully you’ll be able to get a few more years out of it.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

“Still a lot of work and coin for a child’s toy.” Akio glanced at the prince. The armorer has asked Zuko to demonstrate some of his firebending moves, without flame, to get a sense of his style. Zuko obliged, and then threw in a few clumsy sword strikes as well. Akio snorted. “He’s years away from the fighting.”

“I know,” Iroh said with an indulgent smile. “But it makes him happy.”

—

Zuko was shouting. Most of the crew didn’t even look up—the prince shouting was not an unusual occurrence. Iroh was about to lay a winning pai sho tile, but he paused and tilted his head. There was something unusual in his nephew’s voice this time. Not only rage, or contempt, or frustration, but genuine distress. With a regretful grimace, Iroh surrendered to Lieutenant Jhee and went to go see what was the matter.

“—your _only_ job—”

“Prince Zuko,” Iroh said as he entered his nephew’s quarters, folding his hands into his sleeves. “What seems to be the problem?”

Wen and Xen, the brothers responsible for weapons and armor, looked distinctly harassed, and their shoulders slumped with relief at Iroh’s entrance. Zuko turned around. His brow was heavily furrowed in anger, but his lips were pressed tight with something else.

“They haven’t been storing my armor properly, Uncle—I noticed it had begun to warp a few weeks ago, but when they put it on today, the breastplate wouldn’t tie securely. Maybe the sea water got into it or something. It doesn’t fit!”

“None of it fits,” Iroh said, casting a calculating eye over the armor. He poked at Zuko’s shoulder. “Look at this—it’s lifted an inch above your shoulder, and at least two inches short. It’s pinching your neck. The kusazuri are hanging in the wrong places, as well.”

“How did this happen?” Zuko demanded of Xen, but it was Iroh who answered.

“You’ve grown,” he said simply. Zuko face went blank with surprise—except for the left side of his face, with its permanent painful squint. “Zuko, this armor was made for you when you were just eleven years old, and it was last adjusted before you left the Fire Nation. You were this tall when we left.” He held his hand at about chin height. “And now look at you! Practically a man.”

“Don’t get weepy, Uncle,” Zuko mumbled. He lifted his arms, and the brothers removed the breastplate. They moved to replace it in the box, but he waved them away. “You can go.”

“Thank you for your patience,” Iroh said over his shoulder.

Zuko was staring at the armor with an inscrutable expression. He touched one of the suede laces and rubbed it between two fingers.

“We’ll have to stop somewhere,” he said finally. “Get it adjusted again. I can’t be unprepared when I face the Avatar.”

“I’m afraid it will take more than an adjustment, Prince Zuko. We will order you a new set when we reach Pouhai—I am certain they have several excellent armorers outside the stronghold.”

“I don’t want a new set. This one is fine.”

“If it were only the breastplate that needed to be enlarged, that would be one thing, but the entire set is built to a smaller frame. A new one will suit you much better. And besides, it was never built for combat. The plates are too thin. You will need a real warrior’s armor if you are to face the Avatar.”

Zuko swallowed.

“Very well.” He removed the kusazari and his belt and threw it all together, jumbled in the box. “Dispose of this.”

“If you would like to keep it, I’m sure it wouldn’t do any harm,” Iroh suggested gently. “There is plenty of room in the armory.”

“Why would I do that? I have no use for trinkets. Tell the helmsman to set a course for Pouhai at double speed.”

Iroh bowed silently, then took the box back to his room. He carefully arranged the different pieces on the velvet, and draped a tapestry over the box so that Zuko wouldn’t recognize it.

—

They reached Pouhai a week later. Iroh had made his inquiries among his friends at the stronghold, and had chosen the armorer of most renowned skill, but he knew at a glance that the man couldn’t hold a candle to Akio. The shop was dimmer, and dustier, and a number of dress forms with armor templates were crowded in the corners. But Iroh forced himself to remain cheerful, and greeted the man at the counter enthusiastically.

“Good morning! My nephew has outgrown his armor, and we were hoping to order a new set.”

“What battalion?”

“I don’t have one,” Zuko snapped.

The armorer had already been reaching for his ledger, but now he paused and gave Zuko a second glance.

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen,” Zuko said, folding his arms. “Why does that matter?”

He set the ledger back down and leaned on his elbow, addressing Iroh.

“No point in making armor for a fifteen-year-old. He’ll grow out of it too soon. If he were in the Army and really needed it, sure, but until then—”

“I am your prince,” Zuko said coldly. “You _will_ make my armor, and that is not a request.”

The armorer’s eyes flickered to Iroh’s face, then Zuko’s, then Iroh’s again before they widened in recognition.

“General Iroh—Prince Zuko. Forgive me.” He hesitated. “But still, I must point out… it isn’t unusual for a man to keep growing until he is nineteen or twenty. To build and replace armor at that rate is—expensive.”

“By that point, I will be back in the royal palace and it will be none of your concern.”

“But perhaps we might want to invest in the more adjustable design developed by Master Akio,” Iroh suggested. He exchanged a meaningful look with the armorer. “So that we need not veer from our course every time your armor gets a little too tight.”

“Many of our soldiers prefer the adjustable models,” the armor added quickly, when he saw that Zuko was wavering. “Especially if they are traveling to different climates. It can be very useful, around the Poles, to have more room for layering.”

“Fine,” Zuko said shortly. “How long will that take?”

“For a custom piece, a week, maybe six days.”

Zuko swallowed. The terms of his banishment allowed him to step foot in the Fire Nation colonies, but not for longer than three days at a time. The young prince stood straight as a board, clasping his hands behind his chest.

“I have important business to attend to elsewhere,” he said stiffly. “I will return to collect the armor when it is finished.”

They discussed the design in more detail for a few minutes, and the armorer took his measurements. He didn’t bother to ask Zuko to demonstrate his technique; Iroh wondered idly how Zuko’s sword movements would have changed in the intervening years. Piandao’s praise had always been generous, but while they were still in the Fire Nation, Zuko had insisted that he didn’t want to show his uncle his progress until he was truly a master. Iroh had noticed the dao swords hanging on his nephew’s wall and asked for a demonstration, and Zuko had refused. He would need to master firebending to defeat the Avatar, he claimed. This was no time for distractions.

“Make sure the quartermaster sends the expense reports _promptly_ this time,” Zuko said as Iroh paid for the new armor. “Last season it took _weeks_ for us to receive our funding, and I’m sure my father doesn’t want me to be ill-equipped.”

Iroh had his own opinions on that subject—one of which was that their funding would quickly dwindle down to nothing if they began submitting yearly requests for new armor as Zuko aged. Both Ozai and Ursa were tall people, and Zuko was shooting up like a weed. But he kept these thoughts to himself. He reached up to grasp Zuko’s shoulder as they walked out onto the street.

“There is no need, Prince Zuko. This set, like the last one, will be paid out of my personal funds. Consider it a belated birthday gift.”

He braced himself for outrage at this slight on the Fire Lord’s generosity—but for a moment, Zuko’s face softened in a smile. It had been a long time since Iroh had seen him smile.

“Thank you, Uncle.”

“You are most welcome, my nephew.”

—

The harbor was burning.

“Zuko…”

Iroh’s knees almost gave out. He braced himself against the post of the pier, and three thoughts flitted through his mind in rapid succession. The first, understandably, was _Why him?_. The second, selfishly, was _Why me?_. And the third, nonsensically, was _Why here?._ He turned it over in his mind, watching the flames glimmering on the black water, until it made sense. To lose a son was a tragedy. To lose him and to _be_ there, to be close enough to save him and yet be powerless, that was almost beyond enduring. To lose two in such a manner—something inside of him guttered and went out.

A piece of debris floated on the water into his field of vision. Iroh saw it and didn’t see it—until it moved. His breath froze in his chest, and he peered through the dark. It was a body, clutching a wooden box to stay afloat, and as he watched, its legs kicked at the water and propelled it just a little bit further.

_“Zuko!”_

Zuko lifted his head. He was dazed, bloody, and bruised. His eyes couldn’t seem to focus. But he was alive. Without hesitation, Iroh leaped down from the pier into the shallow water. It was too deep for him to stand easily, but he put his arms around his nephew and dragged him to the shore. He wanted to take the boy in his arms and refrained with great difficulty—he didn’t know where else Zuko was injured. Instead, he peeled his body off the debris and rolled him onto his back.

“Where are you hurt, my nephew?”

“’M okay,” Zuko mumbled. “I saw the bird… I had enough of a warning. Just my head—the glass—and my shoulder. Think I hit the water funny.”

“What bird? What warning?”

“The pirates’ bird. It was them.” Zuko thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No. It was Zhao.”

“I fear you are right, Prince Zuko.”

“I didn’t know you kept this.”

“What?”

Zuko flopped his hand at the box he had clung to in the water, and Iroh realized that it was the one containing Zuko’s old armor. It was battered, and a scrap of the tapestry had torn on the rough edge, but incredibly, its contents were still intact. He felt an odd rush of relief. Then he looked at Zuko.

“Yes, I did. But now it is time to abandon it for good. We must travel light if we are to put as much distance between you and Admiral Zhao as we can.”

“No.”

“Zuko—”

“I refuse to let him win.” Zuko pushed himself into a sitting position. “I have to get to the North Pole and find the Avatar before he does. But—” He faltered. “But I don’t know how.”

“I think I know a way,” Iroh said reluctantly. Part of his mind was screaming at him, demanding to know how he could have come so close to losing Zuko, and still agree to put him in harms way—but he shoved that voice to the side. If he listened, then the last few minutes had been real. If he pretended not to hear, then they remained nothing more than a hellish nightmare. “A fleet the size of Zhao's always has plenty of extra supplies on board to outfit the crew, and surely you are close to their size now. Here is what we are going to do…”

—

It was a warm spring day, and the sun was just beginning to set over the great city of Ba Sing Se. Iroh hummed to himself as he bustled around the Jasmine Dragon, collecting the dirty dishes and tea cups. He had two staff members who, theoretically, should be bussing the tables—but they were young, and it was spring, and they ought to be out visiting their friends and wooing their loves. He had released them early at day’s end.

“Is jasmine tea still the special?”

Iroh froze. Slowly, he set the tray down and turned, wiping his hands on his apron. In the doorway, a young man stood. It had been almost two years—Iroh recognized him on sight, but it was a near thing. A lopsided grin lit up the man’s face.

“Well, it’s called the Jasmine Dragon, so I guess jasmine’s always the special, huh?”

“Zuko.” He was across the room before he knew it, enveloping his nephew in his arms. There was far too much of him, and now Iroh was the one burying his face in Zuko’s chest, but he didn’t mind. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me—Fire Lord Zuko.”

Zuko drew back with a soft smile.

“Hello, Uncle.”

“Just look at you…” Iroh marveled, resting his hands on Zuko’s shoulders.

At twenty-two, Zuko had finally stopped growing. He would never be as broad or stocky as Iroh, but he was certainly taller. He had lost the little baby fat remaining on his face, and he wore his hair long, half pulled into a topknot with the crown glinting in the late-afternoon light. His clothes looked made for traveling—black and gold armor over a red tunic, with his swords on his back, at once casual and with regal simplicity.

“My advisers didn’t want me wearing robes at these meetings,” he said dryly. “They thought this would make me look young and vigorous, so I went to Akio’s… or to his granddaughter, rather. What do you think?”

“I think you look—” His voice sounded hoarse, and he cleared his throat. “I think…”

“Uncle, you sound upset,” Zuko said with mock gravity. “I know you’ve always been the one to give me my armor—I could send you the bill, if that would make you feel better.”

Iroh threw back his head and laughed.

“My dear boy. You have remembered how to smile, you are wearing clothing that fits, and you have even developed a sense of humor—how the years have changed you!”

“I have you to thank for that, Uncle. And when you say change—well, I hope you mean for the better.”

He was still smiling, but there was a look in his golden eyes that Iroh recognized. It tugged at his heartstrings and his memory. He inhaled and let out a deep, content sigh, and infused his voice with as much warmth as he could muster.

“Always, Zuko. Always. Now come, let me make you a soothing cup of tea…”


End file.
